Another Kind of Love Story: A Valentine for Her by Bloom Guest Brooke Benton

Every once in a while I find another soul in the vastness of cyber space that just draws me back for more. And more. That's how it's been for me with Brooke. I adore her. Someday I'm going to have lunch with her, mark my word.

We are so excited to share her with you today:

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My mother was the most sensible of housekeepers and paid attention to the minutiae in a way that I simply cannot. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I really CANNOT. My nature is opposed to it. For one thing, my children never wear socks; my mother was a great supporter of the sock industry. It’s only this past year that my son has discovered their sensible offering of comfort and warmth… on his own accord. A mother like me is not attuned to such things.

On our beds, when I was little, the greatest care was taken to assure a warm covering. The philosophy of a heater was not ardently subscribed to and bedtime coziness was most delightful tucked into a bed my mom had just made. Corners were stiffly folded at the bottom of the mattress and because my feet felt tight I would first kick around to loosen the squareness. And there was always the cleverest of coverings as she layered blanket upon blanket and then, folding them over at the top pinned them together with the boldness of diaper pins, neat in a little row. Among the layers of blanket the ones I remember most had drawn girls on them: Holly Hobby like dolls with their assumed cheeks hidden by abundant bonnet, their calico frocks draped with apron. It was a predecessor to fleece maybe and really warm. But a knotted marled heavy thing with a satiny wide hem.

(Sigh. How romantic and lovely my childhood bed.)

Sometimes my kids sleep with blankets and sometimes they do not. I admit that though lured by the glamour of duvets with their prissy covers, I have come to hate them for the sheer impracticality of attempting to wash and reassemble them. I like down throws and fluffy t.v. blankets, usually tossed on the bed for my kids to sort out as they snuggle down.

If they say, “Get me cozy, mom,” then I do, and we all like it—but as a rule, the bedding is just as much a mess as everything else.

Last week I finally went through my clean laundry “tower” (that builds itself almost imperceptibly: how easy is to wash and dry, how hard to fold and deliver) that indeed started at the floor and was almost as tall as my height. I sorted because it was the type of thing a good housekeeper does. That, and my children were completely out of underwear.

And as I folded I thought this: that the laundry of my younger days was never like this. It was like the dry cleaning delivery that my husband needs (because I am like this) now. Picture this precision: something soiled went into the hamper, 24 hours later it appeared folded in my bedroom. (Perhaps on the edge of a tautly made bed.) I thought it was magic. Apparently it was my mom being my slave.

Is it that I am lazy? That I don’t know how to work? Indeed I am happier when my house is orderly and crumb-free, but it is not propelled by a sense of anything more than aesthetics. When I want it pretty, I make it pretty. If it’s dirty and I don’t need pretty, then it can stay dirty.

Anyway, in the endless slog of getting through the piles of things and stuff and dirt and dust, every day I just feel really, really grateful for my mom who sacrificed doing something else for herself so that she could (and did she know this whilst she toiled?) give me cleanliness and love and—if anything—these charming little memories.

Still it makes me wonder what my own kids will remember about me, about what will underscore the obvious love of basic mothering and prove the true devotion of it. And I think it might be cookies.

What was it for you as a child? And what do you think your kids will love and cherish about you?